


The Blood on the Stones

by MostFacinorous



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M, Mind Control, Sentient Night Vale, Typical Night Vale Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:11:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostFacinorous/pseuds/MostFacinorous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before he left work in Roswell, the people Carlos worked with—other scientists, nerds, fun people, smart people, people with dry senses of humor—told him to beware of the small towns he’d drive through on the way to his new station.<br/>“They have a way of trying to suck you in. They love fresh blood.” He’d laughed, and Suzanne, the woman who had hired him, smiled back and patted his shoulder. “We’ll miss that laugh of yours around here.” She told him, instead of goodbye. He remembered liking that much better. </p><p>And that was what he focused on, then. It wasn’t until later that he remembered the rest of her words. He didn’t think she meant it as literally as Night Vale did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blood on the Stones

Small towns like fresh blood. This is a fact universally acknowledged.

 

When someone new comes to a small town, the town reaches out with tendrils to try and hold that person there. Usually it comes in the form of people-- conversations are struck up, offers of help and friendship and charming stories come quickly and invitingly. 

Night Vale _really_ likes fresh blood. It makes it a goal to keep that fresh blood there, to make the newcomers one of its own.

It needs its people. It needs to keep them happy and keep them within its borders, or else it ceases to be a town, and dies. Is abandoned, to become a shell of itself, a ghost town, to turn to dust and be blown away into the void that has been its only source of constant company for all of these years. It has its citizens, and they belong to it, it sees them, who they are, what they do. It knows them. It knows everything. But they come and go, and all it can do is watch them, and appreciate them.  

And as much time as they spend watching one another, the town can watch them all, shifting from one set of eyes to the next, sifting through thoughts and emotions and memories and pulling the strings of each like the invisible puppet master that it is.

But Night Vale cannot control a person until they are a citizen of Night Vale. So Night Vale reaches out with its tendrils and will and dips inside of peoples’ minds, steering them towards the new comers. It offers the people who don’t belong to it yet that which most seems to catch their eye. As bait. As a lure. To set the trap and sweeten the deal. It makes sure all of its people are happy. It makes sure no harm will come of it… and if it seems harm will come, when the newcomer becomes one of its own, it will remove the threat, ruthless and without regard for the life lost or the time wasted. The love it has created will fade with time, as all loves do. Until then, at night, it will go to its children, the poor ones who have lost someone, and comfort them. Night Vale takes care of its own.

During the day though, it finds new things to want. Right now, it wants The Scientist. He thinks more of it than many of its people do, but he has a gentleness to him that appeals, and he seeks to understand it, which flatters it in a way that the blasé and cavalier acceptance of its people never could.

They have been trained and conditioned not to look too hard, think too much, or ask questions.  But The Scientist is from somewhere else; he doesn’t know better. It doesn’t want him to.

It likes the attention.

But it knows he doesn’t belong yet. He could leave, leave them all. It saw the way his gaze lingered on The Loud One. It likes The Loud One. When he speaks, others listen. And he cares about others in the same way that Night Vale itself does. It likes the match—care and questions, the power to pacify and the power to react, and it thinks it would work well for all involved. It reached out, and the next time they were together, it squeezed The Loud One’s mind, his heart.

 

And then it watched, and listened.

“…. _and I fell in love instantly.”_

This was its favorite way of gaining new citizens. It hardly ever took more than a week or two. They were weak, its people, and they _wanted_ so much.

It liked making its people happy. It liked gaining new people, and it had to work hard to do so; they were so fragile and died off so easily and often. 

But The Scientist was a tougher case. Or maybe he was simply socially ill-equipped. It seemed, at first, that he did not realize who The Loud One was. He did not equate The Loud One’s voice with the face of the one he had liked. He didn’t realize the one he wanted had been given to him. And then when it was obvious that he did know, he resisted it. That was unusual. Maybe it was wrong. Maybe he wanted something more, something different. It happened, on occasion.

It listened to the ripples of The Scientist’s dreaming breaths, and saw that he wanted things to research. It gave them to him. For a year, it gave them to him, gave him what he wanted, what he needed, coaxing, cajoling, trying to persuade him to stay. Hoping to convince him not to leave.

It let The Loud One keep trying, too. He spent much of his time very near to The Scientist, even if he could not access The Scientist’s building.  He ate at The Connected One’s restaurant, next door to The Scientist’s building, far more than any other did.

He spoke often of his infatuation, and it let him pine—it wasn’t hurting anything, and at times The Scientist would make noises or flush warm in reaction to the words. It found it amusing. It liked the challenge.

Meanwhile, it also took on other challenges—drawing in a Traveler by offering him the Maiden of the Cactus, whose beauty made him pause, and attempting to keep him there using her. But he did not become a citizen in time for it to move his piece to conserve it when the time came. He lasted, sadly, just long enough to plant the seed for another life. So though the piece was lost, the game had proven worthwhile. But the challenge The Traveler had offered was over before it had really begun. It turned its attentions back to The Scientist.

But the challenge grew dull, and it grew bored with this waiting. It knew that the time would come when The Scientist would want to move on. And he had been here so long that it knew it could not bear to lose him now.

So it woke up some of its creatures from below, stirred a slumbering city and gave them gifts, too—gifts of tantalizing glimpses of light. And it let them move closer and closer to it, let the changes they caused draw The Scientist, for his want for adventure, hidden behind the mask of scientific observation, would not be ignored. Not like The Loud One.

When The Scientist met The Small Ones, he was hurt, as it knew he would be. It was an easy decision then to sacrifice a silly pawn in exchange for The Scientist. And as his blood sank into the soil of Night Vale, The Scientist became one of its own people. Became a citizen of Night Vale.

All Citizens gave blood, in old rituals, like the old rules said they must.

And by those same old rules, their blood strengthened their ties to the land, and the land’s power over them.

That night, as the void set in, The Scientist summoned The Loud One. And Night Vale pulled at them both, gave them what they had been wanting for so long now, that The Scientist had avoided.

Under the watchful eyes of the town, they kissed, and Night Vale relaxed. They belonged now. To each other. To it. It would never lose them. The proof was in the stains under the fifth lane of the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex.

The Scientist belonged to Night Vale now, and it took care of its own.

\---

Before he left work in Roswell, the people Carlos worked with—other scientists, nerds, fun people, smart people, people with dry senses of humor—told him to beware of the small towns he’d drive through on the way to his new station.

“They have a way of trying to suck you in. They love fresh blood.” He’d laughed, and Suzanne, the woman who had hired him, smiled back and patted his shoulder. “We’ll miss that laugh of yours around here.” She told him, instead of goodbye. He remembered liking that much better.

And that was what he focused on, then. It wasn’t until later—much later—as he lay bleeding out in the dirt, that he remembered the rest of her words. He didn’t think she meant it as literally as Night Vale did.

He watched the blood sink into the ground under him, the dirt digging into his face, and his thoughts turned to Cecil.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The writing of this fic brought me to an awesome realization-- which may end up part of another fic, but even if not-- allow me to share with you one take on the difference between Night Vale and Desert Bluffs.  
> http://MostFacinorous.tumblr.com/post/57984807579/i-just-figured-out-the-difference-between-desert
> 
> (and while you're there, feel free to add me if you like! I can always use a new fandom blog to check out!)


End file.
